Out There
by lankypanky
Summary: Little bitty sequel to the "Four Heroes" ending, emphasizing the disastrous consequences for Special Agent Norman Jayden.
1. Chapter 1

Madison was home late that Wednesday night, and as soon as he saw her face, Ethan knew something was wrong. She was trying so hard to look relaxed that she looked like absolute hell.

"You look a little tired," he told her lightly. He didn't want to say much else while Shaun was there. "You missed dinner, but there's leftovers. I can nuke them, or I can even put them back in the pot to heat them up."

Shaun was looking up from the sofa: "You're _late_," he said.

"Yep," she agreed. "Really late. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so late. I'm _starving_. I hope you guys left enough food for me."

The two adults acted like everything was all right until Shaun was in bed. Ethan grabbed her as soon as his son's bedroom door closed. He let her hang in his arms, use him for support.

"What is it?" he asked her. "What happened? What do I need to do?"

She laughed a little bit against his shoulder, about how thoughtful he was. "There isn't much you _can_ do about it. I got some bad news, is all. I wanted to interview Norman Jayden, you know, for my book, and I finally tracked him down."

"Yeah?"

"Well, the FBI would only tell me he was on leave. He was kind of hard to find, because he's in a hospital. I mean, a mental institution. He's sick. I guess he's really screwed up. It would help if you gave me a kiss."

He gave her one. He was already miserable, himself, at the news. "Why? What happened to him? Can we help him?"

"You're such a nice guy," she responded. "You're, like, _crazy_ nice. I'm not exactly sure what's wrong, just that his doctor said it's the best place for him right now. I talked to him, the doctor, I mean, and he said Norman would like to see me, so I'm allowed to visit. The doctor said Norman _really_ wants to see you. That makes sense, I guess, because of what he did for Shaun. The place is out in Virginia. Saturdays are visiting days. I wanted to –"

Ethan cut her off: "Of course I'll come. Of course. Shaun will be back at Grace's on Saturday. You and I can drive out to Virginia. Don't be so sad. Were you late because you were spending time being sad? Do you feel like you're not allowed to be sad here? I'll still love you whether you're sad or not. Let's go see Norman Jayden, see what's wrong."

"Thank you _so_ much," she whispered. "You always know the best thing to say. I don't know what to say about it to Shaun. He thinks the guy's like Superman. What do you want to do?"

"I'll take care of it," Ethan responded. "I'll tell Shaun that he's sick, that he's in a hospital, and we're going to go see him. He can write a get-well card." He kissed her cheek. "How can I help you feel better right now?"

"Can we go to bed? I don't think I'm done being . . . sad. Sorry, I just can't help it." He immediately pressed her to his shoulder and half-carried her to their bedroom, squeezing her so hard she could barely breathe. She was so thankful she felt weak; she couldn't hug him as hard as she wanted to.

The next few days exploded by. Ethan handed the card Shaun had made to Madison in the car on Saturday morning. "Check it out," he said.

She was already grinning at the picture Shaun had drawn on the front: Brightly-colored balloons. When she opened it, the photograph slipped out. It was of the three of them, from the time they'd asked someone to take their picture in the park. They were all smiling. The inside of the card just said, "Thank You."

"Oh my god," she said, as they backed out of the driveway. "This is the best thing ever."

"I don't know," Ethan said, lightly. "Those balloons are a little lopsided. I've got to teach that kid some design skills."

"_No_," she responded. "They're gorgeous. I want to keep it, myself. Oh, he did a wonderful job. Did you put the picture in?"

"Shaun did it," Ethan said, softly. "He wanted it in there, so Agent Jayden could see us happier than when he was here. Swear to god, that's what he said."

Madison teared up a little, then fell asleep on the way. It was a long, long drive.

Ethan gently shook her awake. "Hey, Madison. We're here. We're . . . we're at the place." Just looking into his eyes told her how much it was hurting him to be there, to think about the FBI agent in there.

"Goodness," she responded, and grabbed him in a hug. Ethan had levels of empathy that were almost terminal, and she wasn't sure he was going to be okay inside. "Thanks. Oh, honey, you look worn out. Thank you so much for driving. Do you want to stay out here?"

"No," he told her firmly. "I want to come in. I want to thank him. I want to tell him that I'm sorry he's sick."

She hugged him all the way to the front door. Neither of them had ever been to a mental institution before, and the experience of emptying their pockets of all potentially dangerous objects was surprising, upsetting.

"We've got people on suicide watch," said the bored-looking man supervising the process. "You're lucky you get to keep your shoelaces."

The nurse who led them towards the dayroom, however, was a sweetheart. "When you see Norman, talk to him," she said. "Say his name. If he answers you, he's fine, and you can keep talking. If he doesn't say anything, that probably means he's having a seizure. Don't touch him or talk to him, just tell one of the staff, okay?"

"Oh my god." Madison couldn't repress her horror. "Oh, god, it's that bad?"

"He's getting better," the nurse reassured her. "But he's hurt. He's pretty hurt. He'll be okay if you're careful."

Ethan asked: "Is he . . . dangerous?"

"Oh, no, no. Only to himself, a little, because he's a little accident-prone. He's on the least-restricted ward, mostly temporary voluntary committals and patients who are nearing release. Don't be nervous about violence, not from him, or any of the other patients you'll see in the dayroom. Nobody there hurts anyone. Norman's just sick. He's been so excited for your visit, he really has. He's not the most demonstrative guy in the world, but he actually gave me a hug when I said you were coming. He has trouble remembering days and times, though, so he might be a little disoriented. Just so you know. Oop." They were in the doorway of a large room, now. "There he is, by the window. See him?"

"Yeah," Ethan agreed. Norman was slumped in a chair, staring aimlessly out a wide window. "We're good." He clasped Madison's hand, and they moved together towards the man they'd come to see.

He looked tired, untidy, and startlingly thin, almost gaunt. He also, incongruously, reminded Madison of a high-school gym coach – dressed in sweats and sneakers, a stopwatch hanging from a cord around his neck.

"Agent Jayden?" Ethan asked.

His face immediately shot up towards them, and he sprang out of his chair. "Not in here," he corrected Ethan, extending his hand out in greeting. Ethan grabbed at it. "Here, I'm just Norman. Good to see you. Let's head over to a table."

Norman led the way, awkwardly. "Sorry, it's strange to talk to people in this setting. I bet you're uncomfortable as hell."

Madison laughed as they sat down: "Okay, yeah, a little."

"I would be, if I were you. Thanks for coming. I forgot you would be here today, or I would have shaved. Sharon told me I shouldn't look like such a slob when I have visitors, but I don't exactly have any of my suits here, anyway. Sorry, Sharon is someone who works here. Did you meet her? Oh, shit, I sound crazy as hell, don't I. Sorry. I'm nervous about trying to not sound crazy, and it's making me say crazy things. I was just trying to say I'm sorry I don't look classier."

"It's not like we look that much better," Madison smiled at him. "We had breakfast in the car, and these pants did _not_ have this big coffee stain when we left this morning, I swear." Everyone relaxed a little.

"I really was glad to have the chance to talk to you again," Norman murmured towards the table. "It's good to see survivors of something like what you went through and see that they're doing well. But my doctor said you wanted to talk to me, too. Anything you want, I'll be happy to help with. What do you want?"

There was a little pause before Ethan spoke: "I really just never formally thanked you afterwards, not really," he said shyly. "Everything was so chaotic, and Shaun and I were both in such rough shape. I would have liked to have brought Shaun, he'd like to say thank you, too. But it's sort of a long trip and . . ."

"They don't let kids visit in here, anyway," Norman said, so that Ethan wouldn't have to. "I think some of the other patients get to go out to lunch with their own kids when they come, but I'm still restricted to grounds-only. I can't leave here." His voice sounded a little desolate.

"Shaun made you a card, though," Ethan said swiftly. "A thank-you card." Madison pulled it out of her notebook and handed it over; Norman accepted it with a small smile of surprise, studying the front. The photograph slipped out as he opened it, and he deftly caught it before it could flutter all the way to the floor.

"This is great," Norman finally said, looking back and forth between the card and the picture. "Really great. Tell him thank you. Or that he's welcome. Tell him both. And, of course, _you're_ welcome, too. Cute picture. You three look good together. How's Grace doing, if you don't mind me asking?"

"She's still a little edgy about everything that happened," Ethan answered him. "But she's getting better and better. She sends her thanks, too. We're still sharing custody, and she has Shaun on weekends. That's where he is today. She's back at work, and I think she's doing pretty well."

"How are _you_ doing?" Madison asked Norman, quietly. Ethan flinched a little at her bluntness.

Norman tucked the picture back into the card and folded it again. "What did they tell you?"

Madison shrugged. "Not much. That you're sick. That you have seizures and we should be careful around you if you have one. That's seriously almost everything we know."

"They're not true seizures, they're lengthy hallucinations," Norman said flatly. "But it's more a physical problem than a psychological one. Brain damage. They don't quite know what to do about it. I don't necessarily need to be in a psychiatric hospital, it's just that there's only so many places to keep someone who needs as much supervision as I apparently do. My doctor says that if I do well enough in here, I could go to an assisted living facility." There was little enthusiasm in his voice at the prospect. "They can't do much about patching up the holes in my brain, but I'm supposed to learn here how to live with it."

"Is it . . ." Ethan swallowed hard. "Is it because of something that happened when you were helping us?"

"Sort of," Norman said thoughtfully.

"Oh, God," Ethan blurted back. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

Norman looked confused for a few seconds, then his eyes widened in realization. "No, no, it's not your fault. Or Shaun's fault. Or even Scott Shelby's fault. You've got nothing to apologize for. This is something I did to myself because I was careless, and it almost certainly would have happened sooner or later, even if I'd never gone to Philadelphia. Don't . . . you look horrified. Don't be horrified. This is _my_ fault."

Madison planted a kiss on Ethan's cheek. "You really do look so guilty. Stop it." The other man nodded.

Ethan had to smile a little at how fragile she appeared to think he was. "Sorry. I get it. I mean, I'm sorry you're in here, but I – oh, hell. That was a bad thing to say. _Hell_."

"I'm not offended," Norman said, helpfully. "I'm really not. I'm sorry I'm in here, too. I'm very glad you came."

"I'd really like to interview you a little, if I could, Norman," Madison interjected. "I mean, you can put limits on what I say about you in print, but I'm trying to write a book about the Origami murders and it would really be useful if you could tell me anything you're willing to about your background on the case."

Norman grimaced. "I don't _mind_," he explained, "But I don't have access to any of my old notes any more. You should call the Bureau; they'll have assigned someone new to cleaning up the odds and ends, and whoever that is will have the materials. I have some real memory problems now, and I don't want to tell you anything false."

"Oh, yeah, I know I have to call them again. I sort of have a picture for what I need to call them about. But you were the one who was _there_, and who put all the pieces together. Can I try asking you about it, and you can just answer anything you feel comfortable with?"

He tapped the table thoughtfully for a few seconds. "All right," he answered abruptly. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Ethan excused himself, unfolding out of his seat, and rubbed at his eyes as he drifted towards the windows. He could hear Madison's voice behind him: "Ethan can't really talk about it, it's really hard for him, still. But he came along today because he wanted to thank you." She kept murmuring to Norman, and Ethan was grateful both for her thoughtfulness and the excuse to escape the uncomfortable conversation. He took over Norman's abandoned chair, and spent some time, himself, staring out towards the trees.

Madison opened her notebook to the right place and asked the first question: "When did you start working on the case?"

"May 27th of last year," he said promptly. "I . . . no, no. Of 2011. I, oh god, I don't know what year it is." His knuckles were white.

"That's last year. You were right." He nodded, but he wasn't meeting her eyes. "Am I making you upset? Don't feel like you have to do this. Ethan got to thank you and we gave you the card, and those were the really important things. I can just call the FBI if you're uncomfortable. Just say the word, and I'll leave you alone."

"No," he blurted back at her. "I just can't deal with dates very well. I spend so much time inside my head that it's very hard to tell when things happen. But I can talk about the case. I'm embarrassed about not knowing dates, but if you help me with them, this will be fine."

Madison was already mentally crossing off about twenty of the questions she'd been planning to ask, because they were all about dates. "Well, let's start with something else. What was your first impression of the case? What's your earliest memory of working with it?"

"All of those kids' faces," Norman said immediately. "All those poor dead boys. It made me want so badly to make it stop."

Madison smiled at him in sympathy. "Tell me more."

He did, and after a few more questions that he answered easily, he stopped looking like a deer in headlights. He began speaking quickly, fluidly, gesturing elaborately with his hands. She was scribbling with lightning speed.

"How would you describe your interaction with the local law enforcement?" she asked. He didn't answer her, and after a long pause, she looked back up at his face.

Norman looked far more startled by the question than Madison had expected; he'd jerked his head back, his eyes were wide, and he blinked wildly over her shoulder for a few seconds. He looked so shocked that she shot a glance behind her – nothing. She turned back to him. Slowly, he composed himself, then looked down at the stopwatch hanging from his neck. Solemnly, he took it in one hand, pressed a button, and then stretched his hands out in front of him, staring at them.

Madison was confused. "Norman? Are you okay?"

He didn't answer her, but patted gingerly at the table.

"Norman?"

He stood up abruptly, and she was so startled that she did it with him. He didn't react to her at all. He rounded the edge of the table and immediately collided with the chair she'd just stood up from. It made him crash spectacularly into the next table over, and he ended up almost completely flat on the tile floor. He looked frightened by the fall, and she automatically jumped to help him up.

"Don't touch him!" someone shouted at the same instant she curled her hand around his upper arm, and she was still realizing what had been said when Norman screamed and jerked violently out of her grasp. Startled out of balance, she sprawled onto the floor herself now, while Norman scrambled frantically backwards away from her, his face locked in an expression of terror. He shot right into the wall, banging his head, and dropped fully prone, cowering, his hands raised palm-out in front of him as though he was afraid of being hit.

"Don't _ever_ touch Norman when he's like that," Madison heard the same voice say, and looked up into the accusing stare of a moon-faced man in a bathrobe. She looked quickly around the room; the visitors' faces looked startled, the patients' ran the gamut from mildly interested to bored. Ethan had risen from his chair by the window and was staring open-mouthed at Norman with an expression that suggested horror. The bathrobe-clad man went on: "He can't see you or hear you. It scares him when someone touches him. It scares him a _lot_."

"I forgot," she apologized weakly. "I just wanted to help him get up." An enormous male nurse was hovering attentively over Norman, now. "Is he hurt? Norman, did I hurt you? Oh, no, did I hurt him?"

Ethan was already helping her pick herself up. The nurse who'd shown them in was helping, too. "He's supposed to stay still," the nurse fussed. "He's got to stop trying to walk around when he's hallucinating. He's got so many bruises. Oh, crud, I hope he didn't get too hurt. He hit the wall _very_ hard just now. Did you notice if he at least started the stopwatch?" The nurse moved her hand in a motion that echoed Norman's.

"Yeah, I think so." Madison felt numb. She wasn't sure if she'd still be standing up if Ethan wasn't holding on to her so firmly.

"Good, he's getting better at remembering that. He just has _so_ much trouble figuring out how much time has passed when he doesn't."

All three of them watched as Norman pulled himself off the floor and drifted out of the room, hands running along the walls. The enormous male nurse followed him.

"He might come back to reality in about fifteen minutes, or it might take hours," the other nurse said, softly. "Barry will make sure he's okay. We usually just monitor him so he doesn't hurt himself, because he's very difficult to communicate with when he's like this, and we like to try to avoid unnecessary sedation. But as soon as he wakes up, so to speak, he'll be absolutely rational. I couldn't tell you just how long he'll be gone this time. I don't know if you'd want to wait or not."

"Let's get some lunch," Ethan suggested, gently rubbing Madison's back. "Do you think that would work, if we went out to lunch and came back?"

The nurse nodded. "He might be back before then; if not, then almost certainly sometime this afternoon. You folks had a long drive, didn't you?" They nodded. "I'm sure he'd at least like to say goodbye, if you don't mind waiting." She gave them directions to a few nearby places they could go for food.

"Are you Sharon?" Madison asked. "Because if you're Sharon, he really likes you."

The nurse was immediately flushed. "I'm Sharon. He's very nice when he's got his head straight. I know he likes me. Not in like a romantic way, not in an inappropriate way, but I know he likes me. I'm trying to help him get a place to go when he's able to leave. Do. . ." Sharon looked away. "I know you're not family, but if you know anyone that he could live with, that would be really, really good. He's very unhappy here. He's not ready to go yet, but when he is, he's going to need help, and he doesn't have anyone who could take him that we know about. His family is very distant. It would be really good if you could just try to think of someone."

They were silent all the way out to the car; as soon as Madison closed her door, she turned to Ethan: "Holy shit," she said.

"No kidding. Did he make sense while you were talking to him?"

"Yeah, absolutely. It was a little weird at first, but then it was just like talking to him back when I was interviewing him in Philly. Incredibly cautious; wouldn't say anything unless he was totally sure it was accurate. A perfect model of FBI restraint. Then he just stopped talking like someone flipped a switch, and he got up and walked away and took that header into the table."

"That woman was asking us to take him, wasn't she." Ethan looked like he was working himself up, approaching desperation.

"Yeah, she was." Madison bit her lips. "She wants us to say we have a place he could go to. I should have said we've got a little kid to think about. Shaun would be terrified if Norman was wandering around the house, hallucinating. Wouldn't he?"

"Yeah. I'd like to help him, but we can't help him like that."

"No, we can't. Do you want me to drive? You look really upset."

". . . yes. It would be very nice if you drove us out to lunch, because I can't even remember where that woman said to go."

"Okay," Madison responded. "Get out, I'll drive. You deserve a break."


	2. Chapter 2

After a few wrong turns, they found a sandwich place that Sharon had recommended. Madison picked at her lunch a little, peeling off long strips of crust. "_God_, he's lost so much weight," she blurted across the table, "and he wasn't a big guy to start with."

"Let's talk about something else while we eat, can't we?" Ethan asked. "Take a little break? I know how that sounds, but. Please?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." She racked her brains. "Um, I hardly talked to Shaun at all since Wednesday night. How did the rest of his week go?" They slid into conversational territory that was safer, less frightening. Ethan volunteered to drive back to the hospital when they were done.

"We're going to do something about it," Madison announced thoughtfully to the dashboard. "About him."

"All right," Ethan agreed uneasily. "What are we going to do?"

"_Something_." Back at the hospital, Madison leaned aggressively over the reception desk towards the same bored-looking attendant they'd met that morning. "We need to talk to a patient's doctor. Norman Jayden's doctor? We have some health concerns. Some _private_ health concerns. Is his doctor here?"

It took some finagling – Madison talked her way through a few barriers, Ethan trying to back her up by looking quietly sincere and concerned. That wasn't too difficult, as it was mostly how he felt. Eventually, they ended up in a narrow office, seated on one side of a heavy wooden desk across from a similarly heavy, wooden-faced man.

"This isn't my counseling space," he explained wearily. "Just where I do the paperwork. So there's not a lot of room. I'm Doctor Alex Krause. It's better to do things like this by appointment; I don't have a lot of time on visiting days. What can I help you with?"

"We'd like to talk to you for like five minutes about Norman Jayden."

"Oh?" Dr. Krause responded, noncommittally. "You must be the visitors he was asking about. I think I talked to you on the phone? You're . . . friends of his?"

"Sort of. He saved our lives." Madison smiled nervously. "I don't know if that makes us friends, but it makes us _something_. It's a hard relationship to describe. We _did_ talk on the phone, I'm the reporter, the one who wanted to interview him."

"What do you need to talk to me about?" the doctor asked. He looked wary, now.

Madison realized she had no idea where to start; her plan hadn't gotten much farther than this. She looked to Ethan for help, but he appeared to be totally lost, and she could hardly blame him. "I . . . okay, I don't know what Agent Jayden looked like when he got here, but he is _not_ supposed to be that skinny."

"No. We're working on that," Krause said placidly.

"Is it because he's depressed?" The doctor's gaze was impenetrable. "Or is he sick with something? I mean, he seems really depressed. He said it was more physical than mental, though. Is that right?"

The heavy man sighed at her. "Look, you're not family, and you're not the FBI. It's a serious violation of his privacy to share _any_ of that with you, particularly for the purposes of publishing it. Anything he wants you to know, he'll tell you. I'm certainly not going to."

"I owe him everything," Ethan interjected softly. "My son's life. Mine, too. I'd really just like to know if there's anything I can do for him." Madison nodded agreement.

The doctor drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment. "He's bored here," he finally admitted. "He's bored, and it's very frustrating for him, and he's not putting any energy into following his treatment plan. If he'd like you to visit again, please do so. Write to him. Beyond that, you should ask _him_ if there's anything you can do. Don't go over his head or behind his back like you're doing right now; don't treat him as though he's helpless. Some patients here don't mind having decisions made for them or being taken care of; Norman is not one of them."

"Are you . . ." Madison paused. "I don't know how to ask this. He said he's restricted, not allowed to leave. Are you allowed to do that?"

The doctor's eyes were narrowed now. There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally he answered: "Look, it's not like we snatched him off the street and locked him up. He'll stay here until he's no longer a danger to himself or others."

"That's bullshit," Madison responded immediately.

"Madison," Ethan said, and grabbed at her elbow.

"No, it is," she insisted. "Are you seriously telling me you think he'd hurt people? Jesus, I know he can kill people, he probably knows how to kill them with just his thumb or something, he killed some bad guys back in Philly, you know. A couple of murderers. But it's not like he –"

The doctor cut her off: "He effectively goes blind and deaf for extended periods of time, without warning, has no coping skills, and you don't think he's a danger to himself?"

Ethan was rubbing her knee now, in a gesture that was part comfort, part suppression. "Sorry, we didn't mean to accuse you of anything. This trip has been hard."

Actually, Madison _had_ meant to make some sort of vague accusation, of neglect or false imprisonment or some sort of mistreatment, but she knew it was irrational. "No, I was just confused. Thanks . . . thanks for your time." They fled together, and she squeezed Ethan in apology. "Well, that was a bust," she muttered.

He hugged her back. "Let's go see if he's back yet," was all he said.

Norman was nowhere to be seen in the dayroom, but Sharon smiled when Ethan caught her eye. "I'll take you to him," she told them. "Let me just get another staff member in here first."

"So his hallucination's over?" Madison asked the nurse's back as they followed her along the tiled hallways.

"Ended a while ago," Sharon confirmed. "He's really supposed to come down to meet visitors, but I think this is a reasonable exception. He's not going to be . . . very perky. You can wake him up if he's asleep again, but have him stay in bed, please. He missed lunch because he was in that hallucination for so long, plus we're trying him on a new antipsychotic, and the combination did a number on him. The side effects have been knocking him out pretty hard, and he started snoring so loud in a chair in the dayroom that I kicked his butt back to bed."

"You don't feed him if he misses a meal?" Madison's vague outrage was back.

Sharon frowned at her. "Of _course_ we do. We're pretty flexible here about meals, we've got to be. But we certainly don't force-feed him. He doesn't eat very much when he's upset. It's upsetting to wake up out of a two-hour hallucination in the hallway of a mental hospital where everyone is trying to stay out of your way because they're afraid to touch you." She looked like she was working her way into a glare. "I _am_ doing you a favor, you know. You know what to do if he has another one. That's his room, there."

"Thanks," Ethan said hurriedly, and hustled Madison along by her upper left arm, shoving at her. "Do you have to tick off _all_ of the people who work here?" he whispered in her ear. "Can you just let me know if that's the plan so I can go sit in the car and wait for you to finish?" Madison bit her lip; she wasn't dealing well with her feelings of helplessness, and she knew it.

The room was sparsely furnished: two beds, two dressers, two nightstands, a chair. Someone had apparently rescued Shaun's card from the dayroom, and it was on the slightly-cluttered top of one dresser. Norman, fully clothed, was curled away from the doorway on one of the beds, shivering visibly.

"Hello?" Madison inquired. "Norman?"

He jerked towards them in surprise, his face registering confusion. "Are you supposed to be in here? We're supposed to only meet visitors in the dayroom." He started flailing his way upright.

"We were allowed to come up," Ethan reassured him, "Because you were pretty wiped out and probably needed to stay in bed."

"Oh." He looked dazed, his eyelids at half-mast, but got himself mostly sitting up. "Okay. There's . . . not a lot of places to sit, is the thing. I guess you can use Chris' bed, there. My roommate's bed." Norman rubbed at his eyes as they sat, and apologized: "Sorry. It's this medication they've put me on, it's not working at all on the hallucinations, but it's kicking my ass."

"Sharon told us," Madison assured him. She'd snagged the bed, and Ethan, the room's lone chair.

"Apparently," Norman continued blearily, "One of the side effects is 'fall into a goddamned coma.' Thanks for coming, it's good to see you again. I forgot you would be here today, or I would have shaved. Sharon says I shouldn't look like such a slob when I have visitors. When were you here last? Last week?"

There was a long pause, while Norman looked back and forth between their faces, blinking. "Earlier today," Ethan finally said, softly. "This is the same visit. You were talking to Madison this morning, and then you . . . had one of your seizures. So we left and then came back."

Norman raised his eyebrows and shivered again, tucking his fingers into his armpits. "Huh. Wow. Seems like it's been a while. Sorry."

It was hard to advance the conversation from there. Madison abruptly jumped towards him. "The way blankets work," she fussed, grabbing one off the foot of his bed, "Is they're supposed to go _over_ you." She began unfolding it.

Norman, startled, had jerked away from her into the wall. "Jesus!" he exclaimed. "What the fuck are you doing?" He grabbed the blanket out of her hands. "You hardly fucking know me, don't tuck me in. Do you think crazy people don't need personal space? Because I need a _shit _ton of it."

"No, I think it's drafty in here and you'll feel better with a blanket. It would probably help if you weighed more than ninety pounds, too."

Ethan was visibly uncomfortable with the confrontation. "Madison . . ."

"No," she snapped back. "Don't let him get away with being stupid. You're _not_ stupid, Norman, so why are you doing stupid things? You're not going to get out of here if you keep doing stupid things like not eating and freezing to death on your bed. So get under the fucking blanket."

He stared at her, then wrapped himself in the fucking blanket and settled back into a reclining position. "You are one aggressive broad, aren't you?" he asked.

"You didn't know that already? Are you warm enough now?" Norman looked so incensed by the second question that she had to laugh a little at his expression.

"I wouldn't fight her," Ethan said, softly. "It's not because you're crazy, it's because _she_ is. She has to take care of people. The only way to stop her is to be absolutely healthy around her. Take my word for it."

Norman was still glaring. "Fine. I'm fine. Back off."

"Yeah," Madison agreed, seating herself on the other mattress again. "Okay. I meant it, about being stuck in here, though. Listen, Norman, you look like you feel _rotten_. Just . . . so unhappy. I sort of . . . know people who know people. I don't mean that to sound shady at all, sorry. I mean, god, you're in the FBI, you know about having weird connections. But if you wanted a little help trying to get out of here a little quicker . . ."

Norman looked surprised, quizzical. "Is this . . . like a _quid pro quo_ thing, Ethan? Because I let you loose when you were under arrest?"

Ethan smiled suddenly. "I wouldn't say that's a totally unreasonable way to think of it."

Norman blinked again. "That . . . is not something I thought I was going to ever hear. A return of jailbreak for jailbreak. Amazing. No, but thank you for the offer. You're right, I hate it here, but I should stay put."

"Are you sure? Sharon sort of said –"

"The FBI put me on medical leave," Norman interrupted, "After the first time the cops found me passed out in the snow. I started hallucinating while I was outside, in winter, couldn't see my neighborhood any more. I knew what I was seeing and hearing wasn't real, but I couldn't _stop_ it. Couldn't figure out how to get somewhere warm, or communicate with anyone for help, or anything, just kept walking to stay warm and hoped it would end. I was hypothermic when they found me. I got sent here after the _second_ time they found me, a couple weeks later. I'm lucky I still have all my toes and fingers."

"I'm the one who got lucky," Ethan said, unexpectedly. "I'm so lucky I never ended up like that, when I was having blackouts. Never got hit by a car, or fell down a manhole, or into a swimming pool. If I'd been more responsible, I would've put myself somewhere like this, like you did. I took a lot of risks with my life, and my son's life. If he says he needs to be here, Madison, let him be."

Madison looked back and forth between the two of them. Both men were staring at their knees. She had her own terrors, it was true, but she'd never had quite like what the two of them had gone through, and she felt humbled, embarrassed, to remember that it _was_ something they shared. She was at a loss for words. "What do you see?" she finally asked. "When you're out there? When you hallucinate?"

Norman raised his eyebrows, but considered carefully as he answered the question. "Different things, different times. Different . . . landscapes. Sometimes everything around me disappears, but sometimes I can see _some_ of what's real, big things that don't move. Furniture, if I'm inside. Trees and some landmarks, if I'm not. Never anything real that's moving. Never people. I _see_ some people, but they're not real, ever. It's scary as hell when suddenly there's a real person touching me who I can't see. It's like . . . being molested by a poltergeist."

"I get that," Madison admitted. "I don't understand why you can't just stay still, though. When you have one. If you can remember press the button on that stopwatch to keep track of them, why can't you just stay still and wait for one to pass? Can't you just . . . stop walking around?"

"Yeah," Norman said. He was starting to droop a little, with fatigue. "That's what my doctor wants me to do, in here. To start modifying all of my behavior around having them. To stop acting like they're a temporary problem."

"Well . . ." Madison started to say. She realized Ethan was trying to catch her eye, give her a warning look that she ignored. "Why don't you?"

Norman looked uncomfortable. "Because I don't want to."

"So you're not dealing with them because you're . . . being _pissy_?" she asked. Ethan was looking horrified by her again. There was grim silence in the room for a bit.

"I," Norman finally said sleepily, "am thirty-five years old. I should have a real life. A real job. A real place to live. But I now sleep next to a 300-pound schizophrenic roommate with horrific personal hygiene. _He_, incidentally, is here until he stops fondling strange women in public, and thinks he's better than me because he can usually remember more of the day than I can." Madison's eyes were widening. "Sometimes I wake up in the morning already hallucinating. I loved my job, it was all I ever did, and I can't do it any more. Ever, probably. I can't drive a car. I can't even promise I'll be able to show up somewhere on time, not to meet someone, or get my teeth cleaned, or anything. I never know if I'm going to drop out of reality in the middle of a conversation, or a shower, or trying to cook, or . . . walking to the corner store in January, and nobody knows how to make that stop. I've got fuck-all to look forward to even if I get out of here. I will be as pissy as I want, about anything I want, at any _time _I want." He looked exhausted by the end of his announcement.

"Well," Madison responded quietly. "All right, then, _be_ pissy. As long as we're on the same page."

Norman actually gave her a sleepy half-smile in response, yawning. "Speaking of pissy, did I . . . do anything embarrassing last time? I mean, this morning?"

Ethan shook his head, and Madison reassured him verbally: "You walked into a chair and fell down and I accidentally scared the hell out of you, but it wasn't bad."

"Did I . . . pee on anything?" His eyes were barely open now. "Please tell me I didn't pee on anything. I don't _think_ I had one of those ones today, but it's hard to find the damn bathroom when I'm off in la-la land, and sometimes I just sort of guess and go for it. So I'm sorry if I did that. I've got to figure out a system for finding a toilet that doesn't involve sticking my hand in one."

"It's fine," Madison replied, hesitantly. "You didn't pee on anyone."

"You were supposed to laugh at that. It's true, but it's still pretty hilarious." His head drooped, and he jerked it back up with a snort.

"Don't want to laugh at you," Ethan contributed, "For something you can't help. I can understand why you wouldn't want to leave here, if that happens a lot."

Madison, however, was smiling widely now that she'd been given permission. "If you figure out a toilet system, maybe you could go out to lunch with us another week. Or you could come anyway, just pee anywhere, and we'll tell people you're crazy. It would make it an exciting trip. I think you just fell asleep for a second."

"Yeah," Norman agreed, yawning again. "I'm sorry I'm not very good company. I'd like to keep talking to you, but I'm conking out pretty hard, here."

"We sort of have to leave anyway," Ethan said softly. "But is there anything we can do for you? Do you need anything?"

Norman readjusted his pillow. "Frankly, you can't get me the one thing I really want. The two things I really want. One's illegal and the other one'll kill me. Actually, I guess they'd probably both kill me. No, don't even ask. I'd ask for a six-pack of beer, but that'd be a little too hard to sneak in. I could definitely stand some more books. Ones that aren't terrible, I mean. Most of the books here are terrible. I'd like some good non-fiction. History would be good. Politics. Science. Anything that's come out recently that looks interesting."

"Absolutely," Ethan said. "That's easy. Anything else?"

Norman looked embarrassed. "Gummy bears?"

Madison laughed. "Even easier. I'd like to keep on interviewing you, if that's okay. I could come back another weekend with some books and gummy bears."

Norman nodded. "I'd like that, if you think I'm really being useful. Most of the conversations I have in here leave something to be desired. Though I've learned a _lot_ from Ted about how the government is putting computer chips in our heads. Didn't seem wise to mention to him who I work for. Worked for." He looked distantly out the window. "I think I'm _technically_ still a government employee, they're footing the bill for this place, but for some reason they didn't want someone who hallucinates all day on active duty and carrying a gun. Some of the guys from work come, sometimes. And my sister came out. Once, I think. But it's hard for her to get away. Four kids. She has _four_ kids. Jesus, it still feels weird to say that. I haven't even met the youngest one. But it's nice to have people come." He stuck a hand out towards them as they rose to go, and they took turns shaking it. Norman was curling back up onto his side as they left.

Outside, the couple paused on the place's front stoop for a minute; the day's humidity had solidified into something more than a mist and less than a drizzle. Ethan looked over at Madison. "If you want to cry a little," he said, "You should."

She was already doing so. "I feel stupid," she said, and he wrapped one arm around her waist. "I don't even know the guy, not really. But he's so messed up it's sad."

Ethan nodded and held her tight. "You're not being stupid. I don't know what happened to him, but that's not the same man who broke me out of lockup."

"We can't fix him."

"No."

Madison was out of ideas. "What are we going to do?"

Standing behind her, Ethan had both arms around Madison now, and had buried his face in the side of her neck. He murmured so low she could hardly hear him: "You're going to come back here and keep talking to him, keep interviewing him, and tell him that when he's allowed to, you're going to bring him to Philadelphia, and he's going to spend a weekend on our sofa. Tell him it's a much nicer city than he got to see when he was there, and we want to show him around when it's not raining."

She hugged his arms. "Why didn't you say any of this to _him_?"

"It took me a while to think it out. And you'll say it better, anyway."

"Is . . . would he even give a shit? Two days on our sofa isn't that tempting an offer, really. Not for a guy who's used to hunting serial killers."

"It's what we've got to give," Ethan said, simply. "It could be something for him to look forward to."

"No," Madison said decisively. "He should understand that it's something _we're_ looking forward to. That we're out there waiting."

"I told you you'd say it better." They stayed that way for a while, rocking a little together.

Madison drove home so Ethan could take a turn sleeping on the way. Being the only one awake made it a lonely drive, and sleeping sitting up meant Ethan's snoring was pretty bad. But it made her think, also, about how lonely she wasn't, most of the time now, and how thankful she should be that she always had something as real as Ethan and Shaun to reach out and hold on to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Yeah, just a depressing little mini-epilogue; did it _pretty _quickly, so it's not the best thing I've ever written. Given the various endings for Norman in the game, it honestly seemed like an inevitable conclusion for him. I'm done doing horrible things to him for a while, I guess.


End file.
